Secrets and Lies
by lildevchick
Summary: It wasn't real. None of it was real. The Hunger Games were just another of the Capitol's secrets. Just another of their lies. Cato's supposed to be dead. So then, why isn't he?


Disclaimer: Nope, not mine. Oh, but if it was...

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><p>He woke screaming.<p>

He screamed himself hoarse that first hour, trying desperately to lash out, though his limbs were strapped down so tightly it was painful.

_Pain._

He remembered it. The pain had been so agonizing that it was all he could think of, had lasted so long he was sure it was all he had ever known. Survival had been stripped from his mind and all he had wanted was to be free of it. Free of the terror, of the agony. He had begged, begged for the end and the last thing he remembered was the relief he'd felt when it was finally given to him.

Except...he wasn't dead. At least, he didn't feel dead.

When he finally stopped screaming and bucking against his bonds, his body slumped, all fight draining from him. His throat scratched and burned and he coughed in its irritation, trying to force the bile rising from his stomach back down.

He didn't know where he was. The room was white and the lights overhead were so searingly bright that he had to keep his eyes shut tight to remove them from his vision. Only they were still there. They were so horrifically bright in that little white room that they burned through his eyelids, threatening to blind him even when he wasn't seeing.

It was hell. It had to be. He was being punished for all the death he'd brought upon the innocent in the arena, for being the perfect warrior that his district had trained him to be. All he wanted was to survive, just like everyone else. And to do so, he'd hardened himself, become the monster his parents demanded he become just so District 2 could have its glory for another year.

He cried then, choking sobs that threatened to take his breath away. It was the first time he'd cried since he was a small boy being forced into the Academy against his will. He cried at the pain he could still feel echoing in his limbs, at the thought of what he'd done to other human beings now that the drive to live and the adrenaline no longer pumped through his body. He cried at the unfairness of it all, until he had no more tears to shed.

Then he slept. It was fitful, filled with nightmares that shoved the faces of his victims to the forefront of his mind. When he finally woke, unable to scream against the harsh dryness in his throat, the lights were dimmer, and he wasn't alone.

He found he was able to sit up. His arms and chest were no longer strapped down, but the restraints were still stretched tightly across his shins and thighs. He propped his body up on his elbows and, for the first time, really looked around.

The room was small. Only his bed and a small night table were in it. There were no windows and only a single white door that nearly blended seamlessly into the surrounding walls offered any means of escape. He looked down at his body and was surprised to see it clothed in a thin white hospital gown made of paper. Tubes of varying thickness were stuck into his left arm, pumping in different colored liquids. He turned his hands over and couldn't fight away the thought that they _weren't his hands_.

He looked back up and his eyes met another set colored stunning silver.

The man standing across from him was dressed entirely in dark blue and had a clipboard in his hands. His hair was an even darker shade of blue than his outfit, almost navy, and his skin was paler than any living person's he'd ever seen.

"Subject 1725, name: Cato. How are you feeling?"

It took him a moment to realize he was being spoken to. He numbly gave the man a nod, his eyes wide in his confusion.

"Am...am I dead?" He winced at the harsh croak of his voice.

The man let out a bark of laughter. "Of course you're not dead. You're here aren't you?"

"Uh, I guess..."

That wasn't a very reassuring answer.

"Anyway, Cato, I will be your attendant for the rest of the day. Now that you are better, we can begin carrying out t-"

"Why am I not dead?"

The attendant sighed and lowered his clipboard to his side. "Because the Capitol saw fit to bring you back, just like it has done for nearly every tribute lost during the games over the course of it's 74-year history."

He couldn't even begin to process that. "What?"

"Every tribute that dies during the Hunger Games is brought back once the games have ended."

There was still no way he could process that, but something else occurred to him when he looked back down at his hands. "This isn't my body."

"Of course not. Your original body was far too damaged to be salvaged. You had to be given a new one. It was a lucky thing that Ms. Everdeen's arrow did not pierce through an important area of your brain, otherwise you wouldn't have been recovered at all."

_Salvaged._ Like he was a piece of junk that could be recycled. That's what the Capitol saw him as. He felt his blood boil. He wanted to punch the man, to kill him, something he was very good at doing.

Instead, he simply asked, through clenched teeth, "How?"

"Oh, our technology and medicine are advanced enough to allow such things. So long as the brain remains largely intact, there are no problems reviving a dead tribute. And for those, such as yourself, whose bodies are beyond repair, we simply find a replacement. Why do you think we retrieve the bodies during the games? They're useless if allowed to rot."

"Wait, I thought our bodies were to be sent back to our districts. To our families."

The attendant brushed the comment off with a wave of his hand. "That's what the families of the tributes believe. The caskets the 'bodies' are returned in are sealed shut and are forbidden to be opened. They're filled with stones, to add a believable amount of weight and the threat of punishment comes with the order to leave them sealed. The idea behind it is to further the pain the families already feel. They all said their goodbyes to their children before they boarded the trains headed to the Capitol. Besides, most wouldn't want open casket funerals, anyway, not with the damage most tributes sustain in the arena."

A new wave of rage washed over him then and his hands clenched into fists in anticipation of wringing the man's neck, something that did not go unnoticed.

"Please, calm yourself. We wish to make this transition as simple and efficient as possible, and we can't do that if we have to keep you sedated."

"Transition?" His hands loosened.

The attendant nodded. "Yes. All tributes who perished during the Hunger Games are to be relocated to District A."

His confusion must have shown on his face because the attendant sighed and continued, "District A is a secret district located to the far north. It is where all tributes who die and are returned are sent after the games. It is to keep you separated from the regular populace of both the Capitol and the districts. It wouldn't do if everyone knew that you were really alive. It would completely negate the effect the Hunger Games are supposed to have."

"Then why do this? Why bring us back?" He could barely form the words. It was all so hard to swallow.

"Because the Capitol does not believe in unnecessary waste." The attendant sounded annoyed at the question, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. "Each tribute has potential in this world and it's a waste to completely eradicate such young lives. Your 'deaths' are merely meant to serve as a reminder and a warning to the districts. It is our way of keeping them in line."

"Sounds like a giant _waste_ of resources and money, bringing back a bunch of dead tributes." Cato scoffed.

"I suppose someone as barbaric as yourself wouldn't understand. It's a matter of principal and the Capitol can easily afford to do it."

"So then, what happens now?"

The attendant looked down at his clipboard, clucking his tongue as he glanced over the contents on a sheet of paper. "You will be sent to processing with the other tributes who fell in the games and we will transport you to District A. There you will be allowed to live, under heavy Capitol supervision and you will be expected to find a way to adapt and survive in the community there. It's a very small district, of course, but there is a job for everyone." He rose and turned to the door, before adding, as an afterthought, "Oh, and no trouble of any kind will be tolerated. You either adapt, or we will take measures to...neutralize you."

Cato almost laughed at that. Brought back only to be killed again. How like the Capitol to give and then take away just as easily.

The attendant cast one last look over his shoulder. "I will be back for you in a few hours and then you will be reunited with your fellow tributes. Please, try to get some rest in the meantime."

The door closed with a hiss behind him and Cato was left alone with his thoughts.

He wanted to feel relieved at still being alive. But he couldn't. All he felt was broken. With death, he would have at least been free of the Capitol, but now, they owned him, completely.

His life before the games had been nothing but preparation for his inevitable journey into the arena and none of that even meant anything.

It wasn't real. None of it was real. The Hunger Games were just another of the Capitol's secrets. Just another of their lies.

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><p>AN: This is my very first Hunger Games fanfic. I have to say I adored the books and really enjoyed the movie. I know Cato is supposed to be the main baddie of the first book and the movie, but I really just felt for him. This fic was born because it saddened me that he and several of the other tributes I'd grown attached to had to die. I know that's the point, for them to die, but my mind came up with this in response. I'm not sure if the premise will make much sense, but I enjoyed writing it. Please keep in mind that this is just a oneshot. I do not intend to continue the story. At least, I don't have any current plans to.

So, review? :)


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